


Natasha, Or Something Like It

by cjmarlowe



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Other, Sensation Play, Tattoos, kink bingo, mental masturbation, possession/marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exercise in self-ownership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natasha, Or Something Like It

Natasha has been many things to many people, and she has been many people for many reasons. But beneath those layers of artifice and history, beneath the decisions made for her, beneath the things she was brainwashed or coerced into doing, she has always been Natasha, or something like it. Her own person has always existed, even if she hasn't always been able to act on it.

Now that she can, without restriction, she chooses how she wants to do that.

"I have an appointment," she says to the man behind the desk. Boy, really, 6 gauge tunnels in his ears and the tip of a tattoo on his breastbone peeking out from beneath his t-shirt ("of a local band, very underground, you've probably never heard of them"). "With Heather."

He looks her up and down and she knows that look, someone judging his own status against hers, figuring out whether she's part of the group or an outsider. Natasha knows how to be either one at will, but instead she just stands there, impassive and indifferent, while he tries to figure her out.

"I'll tell her you're here," he says finally, dropping the pen he'd been twirling around his fingers and finally getting up and disappearing into the back, having clearly come to no conclusions but with a job to do that he's at least marginally competent at.

Natasha doesn't have to wait long; even when she isn't trying, she has that effect on people. "Natalie," Heather says as she joins Natasha at the front desk. Natasha smiles and holds out her hand in polite greeting. "Right this way."

She already has the stencil made up, from the artwork Natasha had given her when she made the appointment; she appreciated Heather's freehand work at the time but lettering is very precise and requires artistic flair in the planning, not necessarily on the day of execution.

"Make yourself comfortable," she says, which Natasha is probably more prepared than most to do. Or if not comfortable, then calm and collected and without shame— _appearing_ comfortable.

She takes her pants and underwear right off both because she isn't about to hobble herself with them, she's too wary for that, and because it is her choice to do so. She's already shaved to save everyone the trouble—she prefers not to have other people's blades that close to her if she has a choice in the matter, thank you very much.

"Right here?" Heather swipes two gloved fingers over the bare area just above her pelvis, and Natasha nods, puts an arm behind her head and settles back with legs splayed on the chair.

A couple weeks from now the letters will mostly obscured again, but that's not the point. The point isn't even entirely that they're there, the point is that she _put_ them there. That she is placing a conscious and indelible claim. This is her body, and she uses it how she chooses to.

"Just tell me when you're ready, then," she says, cleaning the area and placing the lettering she drew up onto it, lined up just right.

"Any time," says Natasha. She has superb muscle control. She is not going to jerk or twitch when the needles start, no matter how sensitive the area is. 

It's still a little while before Heather starts, and the initial sensation is a jolt no matter how prepared she is, even if she doesn't outwardly reflect that. It's easy to be ready for things she feels every day, but this is not one of them. There is nothing quite like the buzz of a tattoo gun, nothing to compare it to. It is exactly what it is.

She's not into pain, but she's easily able to take herself to another place where she hardly even notices that part; it's the vibrations, right _there_ , that are something else entirely. Taking herself to another place doesn't mean the sensations stop existing, just that she experiences them differently.

"Doing okay?" says Heather and Natasha just nods her head smoothly, eyes open but looking past where Heather is working. She could see what she's doing if she wanted to, albeit at a steep angle, but the first time she sees it she wants it to be in the mirror, the way it's meant to be seen. The lettering is backwards. It's not meant for anyone but her.

She drifts off again, safe in here but not unaware that at any moment her safety could be compromised. It's something she's always aware of, even in her sleep. She's learned how to cope in spite of that, to sleep and to relax and to enjoy her life in those moments when personal or global disaster is not imminent.

"Halfway there," says Heather, sitting back to stretch her hands and give Natasha a break from the constant sensation too. Tattooing is a lot of stopping and starting but the lengthy break makes her focus more on secondary sensation, the slight lightness in her head, the echo of a buzz in her thighs, the invisible wetness between her legs. It's not to the point that it's distracting, but it's there and she makes it a point to be aware of everything that she's feeling, even if only to supress the sensation.

"How's it looking?" she says, because it's a normal thing to ask.

"Good," says Heather, smiling at her. She doesn't ask what the tattoo says, or why it's written in reverse, or why it is where it is; if she reads Cyrillic script, which Natasha suspects she does not, she doesn't ask whose name it is. Natasha thinks that any talented tattoo artist has done far stranger things, and knows when not to ask any questions. People talk about what they want to talk about; if it's a story they want to tell, there's plenty of opportunity to tell it. "Ready to keep going?"

"Any time," says Natasha again. 

She's readier when it starts this time, already load-balancing her sensations so that they doesn't overwhelm her. Some people, she knows, like this process. She's known people who are covered in tattoos, and not because they are all particularly meaningful. For her, though, this is about the choice and the end product, and if the process itself does things for her that's just a bonus.

"Let me know if you need to stop," says Heather, even though they both know Natasha already knows that. She supposes it's easy to get lost in it, to get so into the sensation you don't notice the tipping point, when it gets to be too much and your breath quickens and your pulse spikes and your body needs to move. It's not something that happens to her.

"I'm good," she says. "Just let me know when I can look."

"Just a little longer," says Heather. "I know it's a sensitive area."

"I've had bigger needles do worse to me," says Natasha, presenting it without context. She knows Heather thinks it's a medical thing now, and has associated Natasha's desire to get such a specific and personal tattoo with some sort of survivor story. She's not wrong, it's just not the story she's thinking of.

Natasha, if she wants to, can orgasm using only her mind. It's not a skill she exercises often, but there are times when you're otherwise incapacitated for long hours, and you need to find a way to pass the time. She doesn't do it now, not entirely, but she does let her mind build on what her body is already doing, between the relentless vibration and the endorphins from the needles and the very fact of what she's doing, the claim she's making.

Probably that last one most of all. There's nothing that turns her on more than her personal freedom.

She's less ready when it stops than when it started, her body anticipating the sensation returning, and flooding with even more adrenaline the longer she waits until she realises that it's not coming back this time. Heather's cleaning her up now, swiping away blood and surface ink.

"Okay, take a look," she says, holding a mirror out to Natasha. She looks away as Natasha positions the mirror to look at herself, just a nod to privacy since she's still there next to her. Natasha supposes that, after spending that much time in that personal of a place, she might want a few moments away from it too.

She reads her own name in thin, stark letters, perfect and even. She doesn't touch them, not until it's healed up, but for a moment she wants to finger herself while reading her name. The only thing that stops her from doing it is the fact that Heather is still standing there, so she does it inside her head instead, and the physical reaction is the same. 

"Thank you," she says, handing the mirror back or she might have sat there staring at it all afternoon. "It's perfect."

"I'm glad you like it," says Heather, and while there's some pride of work in there, Natasha can tell that it's mostly just customer courtesy and not as though she has any vested interest in Natasha's happiness. It's just her business. "Just a few more moments."

Natasha looks at the ceiling and digs her fingernails into her palm and is surprised by how the gentle application of balm and bandages is affecting her more than anything else. Juxtaposition. Just juxtaposition, and a heightened awareness of sensation. She's not going to have an orgasm in a vinyl chair with a stranger. Not this time.

She has the rest of her life to look at the tattoo.

"You're done," says Heather, pressing lightly on one of the pieces of surgical tape to keep the edge down. "Do you need a minute?"

"No," says Natasha, reaching for her clothing. "Thank you."

She slips care instructions into her pocket once she has pants on again, looser than she usually wears them but still putting pressure on the tattoo. It's not a bad sort of pressure, really.

"Have a great day, Natalie," says Heather, snapping off her gloves and discarding them. "Maybe we'll see you again some time."

Tattoos are psychologically addictive, she knows. Most people don't stop at one. But right now she feels like she has everything she needs. No one can take this away from her.


End file.
